


drive my body into his (like a crash test car)

by staccato_ramble



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Boy Blaine Anderson, Consensual Underage Sex, Falling In Love, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Skank Kurt Hummel, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staccato_ramble/pseuds/staccato_ramble
Summary: Kurt Hummel used to dream about how he would fall in love. It never involved kissing a stranger at a party, sneaking cigarettes after school, and so much blood, but that's how things go sometimes.A remix ofwe look like animalstold from Kurt's point-of-view, featuring BadBoy!Blaine and Skank!Kurt.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Quinn Fabray & Kurt Hummel, Tina Cohen-Chang & Kurt Hummel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	drive my body into his (like a crash test car)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [we look like animals](https://archiveofourown.org/works/456106) by [staccato_ramble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staccato_ramble/pseuds/staccato_ramble). 



> I originally wrote _we look like animals_ when I was seventeen. Now, nearly a decade later, I wanted to fill in some gaps and handle some bits of the story with more grace than I was capable of back then. You don't need to read _we look like animals_ to understand this story since this is Kurt's POV, though I have tried to keep dialogue the same throughout both. 
> 
> Any tagged warnings or archive warnings that are applicable to a chapter will be discussed in notes at the end of a chapter. When I wrote the original, I wasn't nearly so kind and I regret that. Stay safe. 
> 
> Fic and chapter titles are taken from Richard Siken's _Little Beast_.

He’d always loved dressing up. 

There’s a picture that used to sit on his mother’s side of the dresser: Kurt as a toddler standing precariously in a pair of his mom’s heels, one of her bras tucked onto his shoulder like a handbag and one of his dad’s caps obscuring most of his face. The only thing visible beyond the bill of the hat is a face absolutely covered in lipstick. Kurt thinks he remembers his mom laughing when she found him - pressing a kiss to his forehead and then rushing to find a camera before cleaning him up. It scares him a little, that if he’s not sure if it’s a memory or a dream. He wants to ask his dad about it, but that’s scary too. Because while it makes total sense that Carole moved the picture when that side of the dresser became hers, Kurt still feels an ache in his gut when he thinks about the missing picture. 

“You good?” Quinn asks. 

She’s sprawled out on his bed, one hand in the air as she paints her nails. It’s something he could have never imagined the lifetime ago that was his sophomore year. The Mommy Issues Club isn’t an approved McKinley High extracurricular but membership isn’t exactly voluntary. They’ve only talked about it once - when they were both too far gone on a bottle that Quinn’s dad left behind. The next morning, Kurt Hummel had allowed Quinn to baptize him with a bottle of cream bleach and cheap hair dye. 

“I had to save for weeks for that bedspread,” he says primly. “I’d rather you not stain it.”

Quinn flips him off lazily, then pointedly takes the brush to the offending finger. Despite the messy way her roots shine next to the pink dye and the fishnets that have been torn to the point that they barely have enough material to wrap around her thighs, Quinn applies the black polish in neat, practiced strokes. Perfectly manicured nails were once part of her uniform.

Part of the Mommy Issues Club is that they don’t mock each other for the way they existed before that. Besides, Kurt knows all about using a uniform as armor - though the carefully constructed silhouettes and haute couture dreams stopped being enough. Still, he’s proud to be the most fashionable of the Skanks, even if it’s low-hanging fruit.

Take tonight for instance. 

Tina invited him to a party with her and Mike and (in her exact words) ‘Mike’s weird friend from when he was, like, in tiny tots gymnastics or some shit’. Quinn has already declined Kurt’s invitation to tag along, claiming that she has no interest in playing the fifth wheel to Tina and Mike at a party closer to Westerville than anywhere else. Instead, she plans to smoke with some of the other girls and sweet talk Sheila into giving her a stick-and-poke.

Seeing as a bloodborne infection has no appeal, Kurt’s firmly decided on the party. Even if Tina says it’s technically a bonfire but really just an excuse for a bunch of the tri-county goths to get wasted, he’ll be bored without Quinn and it’s the tail end of August and (shamefully) he’s spent the past two days lounging around the house in yoga pants. A fashion moment is desperately needed.

He starts by teasing and tugging his hair until he manages a truly breathtaking pompadour, cursing the amount of time he thought it was better to keep his bangs down as a means for hiding himself and the acne that occasionally dotted his T-zone. Either way, it was no use. People could see him just fine with his hair down and concealers exist, so Kurt decided about a year ago but it was better to just have fun. 

And it _is_ fun for him to look like this, adjusting a diamond stud in his nose that's the same color as the glitter that he brushes onto his face, blending it carefully because even if he wants to say fuck you to the people who'd stare anyway, there's no need for sloppiness. He doesn't actually wear a ton of makeup, despite what Finn sometimes implies. Sure, there's eyeliner along with the aforementioned glitter and concealer but Kurt likes to think of himself as a masterpiece, because maybe if he thinks it enough and paints the picture with a steady hand, it will be true. But his hair and face are only accents - Kurt's clothes are where he shines. 

When he first started dressing like this, Tina and her goth friends had been a major influence. Then, he turned to his trove of fashion magazines - taking cues from Anna Sui and Jean Paul Gaultier. It felt good to trade in clean lines for something rougher and the neat finishes for something rawer. 

The first time Quinn asked if he wanted to get dinner with her and the other Skanks (and, god, Kurt recoiled at the name at first) and he agreed. On the drive over, they talked fashion like they could never have in Glee Club and Kurt bemoaned the fact that he couldn't ever pull off ratty crop tops like the girls were sporting. 

The Mack raised an eyebrow at that and asked, "Why not?"

_Why not indeed_ , Kurt thinks as he surveys the small collection of them he's accumulated since then. 

He picks one that looks like a crewneck sweatshirt, slipping it on and feeling satisfied that he could always claim that it's just a shirt that shrunk a little in the wash if need be. Fashion-forward and innovative and derisive of the idea of gendered clothing he may be, but Kurt is still smart enough to have an excuse ready if someone gives him trouble. 

The whole point of dressing like this is to be armored, not to draw a target to his weak spots. So, he pairs the crop top with some innocuous black jeans and Doc Martens, even though he thrifted a kilt earlier in the summer and he's been dying to wear it. Maybe another time, when he's either braver or out of Ohio or both. 

Kurt pushes the thought down as he turns carefully in the mirror, studying the composition for any areas that need improvement. If he's honest with himself, none of the individual pieces are the most radical things he's ever worn. But as he brushes a few stray pink strands of hair back into place, another sliver of his abdomen is visible and he smiles at himself. At least now, he thinks, if people are laughing at the way he looks, he can laugh back knowing his outfit has been a carefully constructed "fuck you" to them and their expectation of how gay looks - because even if he's a walking stereotype, he feels comfortable in his skin and, forget what anyone says, crop tops are comfortable. 

“How do I look?” Kurt asks, spinning once for Quinn’s benefit.

Her nails are done but she’s still stretched across Kurt’s bed. She eyes him carefully, starting at his boots and slowly making her way to the very top of his hair. It had been Kurt’s suggestion that she try gold eyeliner instead of black today. It makes her eyes pop, makes it easy to understand why she was once the apex predator of teenage girls. Finally, Quinn smiles at him and it’s with more warmth than Kurt would’ve ever thought possible.

“You’re hot,” Quinn says. “But I’m pretty sure that’s my shirt.”

“Looks better on me,” Kurt retorts, both of them knowing full well that there’s no venom behind it.

She flips him off again and he returns the favor, both of them unable to keep from laughing. Not for the first time, Kurt thinks that if his life were a musical this is where the music would begin to swell. But instead, Tina texts him to say she's outside his house and they hurry out, moving too quickly for Finn or his dad to comment on the outfit.

It’s not easy to dance to the emo dubstep remixes that have been playing all night at the party. The bonfire is really just some of the goth kids who are too cool to dance poking a tiny fire pit though, so after a couple of Tina Cohen-Chang original cocktails, Kurt manages to make his way to the dance floor. 

Tina herself is emotional at the prospect of Mike graduating this year and has already downed three of what she called whiskey sours. Kurt, who’s been careful to drink only what she’s having, is pretty sure dropping a maraschino cherry into Fireball does not a whiskey sour make. But, having matched Tina drink for drink, he’s to the point that all he wants to do is make her smile. It’s strange, how much vying for solos make you forget how gorgeous someone’s smile is.

“Mike’s weird friend is here!” Tina says, pressing close so she can shout into his ear before nodding her head towards his house. “He just joined Glee Club and has, like, the most ill-suited Ivy League name.”

“Digby Orson Rockerfeller the Eighth?” Kurt guesses, putting on his best posh accent. “Here in our little hamlet?”

She throws back her head and laughs at it, the sound swelling louder than the bass for an instant. Kurt bows low, because he’s still a showman at heart, then pulls her close with a flourish. They spin around a few times, Tina’s laugh growing wilder with each spin. When Kurt dips her low, he’s breathing a little hard. Sure, he’s out of practice, but it’s fun.

When Kurt straightens back up, Mike blows Tina a kiss. He reaches out to snatch it, tucking it away. Tina swats him for that and Kurt responds by sticking out his tongue. Maybe not his most mature moment but his brain is a warm, blissfully blank fog from the alcohol. For all his blustering with Quinn and the Skanks, Kurt doesn’t drink often at parties. He prefers a cool, uninebriated head when in public. 

Plus, if he was sober, maybe his breath wouldn’t have hitched when he was able to finally focus on the guy with Mike. 

The trashy romance novels he and Tina binge read last summer were all about the tall, dark, and handsome. For what the guy lacks in the first portion, he makes up in the latter two. Kurt can appreciate a black on black on black moment, the way that the leather jacket hugs his shoulders in a way that would make Kurt warm even without the booze. The only downside is his hair. And what a tragedy it is. The poor thing has shellacked into a weird greaser helmet. In another life, Kurt would love to give a lecture on the wonders of spray-on wax and light mousse. 

Now, Kurt just hisses in Tina’s ear. “That’s Digby? Digby looks like the lovechild of Danny Zuko and J.D. from Heathers?”

“I told you his name was ill-suited,” Tina replies easily. “You can talk to him all about his tragic criminal past.”

“You’re joking,” Kurt says flatly. 

Except then it’s too late, Mike’s close enough to grab Tina and they’re making out without any sense of atmosphere or introduction etiquette. The absolute traitors. Digby looks uncomfortable, though it’s not clear whether it’s at the blatant display of heterosexuality or the fact that he’s wearing a leather coat in August. He considers Digby for a moment (and, god, Kurt needs to learn his actual name before that sticks.) Then, figuring he’ll never talk to the guy again after tonight, Kurt reaches for his hand and leans in to whisper, “I’ve heard so much about Mike’s criminal friend. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The guy squeezes back and Kurt feels his heart stutter when Not-Digby smiles wickedly and says, “Believe me, beautiful, the pleasure is all mine.”

“I’m very drunk right now,” Kurt tells the guy, weaving his way through the party. 

It isn’t a lie either. He’s drunk enough to still have Not-Digby’s hand in his, sober enough to know better than to thread their fingers together. The other guy doesn’t seem to mind. Or at least, he doesn’t mind enough to yank away or knock Kurt’s teeth out or worse. That’s the whiskey, Kurt thinks - everyone likes to talk about liquid courage. They don’t warn you about the danger of liquid hope. 

“I’m very drunk right now,” Kurt repeats when Not-Digby fails to provide any conversational fodder. “But before you ask or talk shit, that’s not why my voice is like this.”

“I wasn’t going to talk shit.”

And well, that’s a start but not exactly something Kurt can build a conversation on. In the front of the house, there’s a porch swing. Maybe the fresh air would help clear his head, allow him to make the best of what the night is shaping out to be. Maybe getting hepatitis from Sheila’s stick-and-poke rig would’ve been a better option. 

Thank god for the drink he bogarted from Tina before abandoning her and Mike to their depravity. Kurt downs it in one and it hurts. In the past year, he’s learned the relish in things hurting and has gotten good at sitting in that hurt. He didn’t even realize he was talking out loud until Not-Digby speaks.

“Are we talking hurt like the nose ring or hurt like fuck it sucks to live in Ohio?”

Kurt laughs at that. It’s not that it’s funny or probably even meant to be a joke.

"Tina said you're new to McKinley. You're about to really learn what a shithole Ohio can be."

"Oh, yeah?" Not-Digby, stretching out his arms across the back of the porch swing. "Tell me about it."

Maybe it's a summer breeze. Maybe it's his own wistful imagination. But Kurt is pretty sure that the other boy's fingers just grazed along the nape of Kurt's neck. He's smiling at Kurt, face glowing a little orange in the porchlight but still beautiful. There's something about the way his eyes light up a little. Suddenly, Kurt's mouth feels dry and he wishes he hadn't finished his drink, even if Fireball isn't exactly refreshing. He curls his legs up onto the swing, tucking his chin onto his knees and feeling awkward, gangly. 

"Mm, that's a long and sad story," Kurt finally says, purposefully staring out at the grass like it holds all the secrets of the universe. 

There's a tugging on his ankle, insistent but so gentle that Kurt's breath catches. Not-Digby has pulled Kurt's legs across his own lap, trapping himself. One hand curls loosely around Kurt's left ankle and it seems impossible, to feel the electricity flowing from such a mundane part of his body. The other boy takes a slow meaningful sip of the beer in his cup. 

"Sorry, I've already called dibs on having a long and sad story. You can call it charity. Warn me about what I'm walking into."

And so, Kurt starts talking. He really only meant to talk about their shitty school and maybe a little about Glee Club. But it turns out that pounding drinks in the first half of a party doesn't make him a very eloquent storyteller in the back half. At one point, he's horrified to realize he's mentioned his mom. He half-expects Not-Digby to bolt, but instead, he's taken to idly squeezing Kurt's ankle and making small, encouraging sounds for Kurt to go on. Something in that makes warmth pool in Kurt's belly. It suddenly feels like they're obscenely too close and, simultaneously, not touching nearly enough. 

Kurt reaches out languidly, the booze making his own body feel heavy. He walks his fingers back and forth along the sleeve on Not-Digby's jacket sleeve, still talking. It doesn't make sense. Even in a crop top, Kurt's shirt sticks to his back and shoulders with sweat. Not-Digby is here looking like a slightly outdated teenage dream, hair just being to fight against the gel holding it down but still in a faux leather jacket like it isn't August in Ohio. Kurt wants to take the jacket off him, marvel a little at whatever Not-Digby is hiding under the long sleeves, maybe even push up the hem of Not-Digby's shirt and see what he looks like under that too, see what Not-Digby-

"Shit," Kurt says suddenly, interrupting his train of thought and own story. "I never even told you my name."

"Mike told me already. You're Kurt."

And here's that smile again, Not-Digby looking like he and Kurt are sharing a secret. Kurt can't help it, smiles back, and slides his hand up Not-Digby's arm, squeezing his bicep. The muscle there is delightfully solid. So, this isn't a dream.

"I _am_ Kurt. Who are you?"

Kurt's head is swimming pleasantly. A handsome boy keeps smiling at him, allowing Kurt to touch his arm and keep Kurt's legs in his lap. Whatever song that's playing in the backyard warns them _morning will come and I'll do what's right_. The singer's voice is slow and high and sad, but Kurt pushes it to the back of his mind. He pulls his legs back, settles his hand between the two of them They're maybe a few inches away from holding hands. It would be an easy thing to do, he starts inching his fingers closer but then Not-Digby speaks again and Kurt freezes."

"Blaine. My name is Blaine Anderson."

Tina was right, Kurt thinks, it is an ill-suited Ivy League name. Except for the part where it also feels like the most perfect name he's ever heard, making Kurt feel like he's in middle school again and that he should be writing the name over and over on the inside cover of his trapper keeper. 

"Blaine Anderson," he says, not so much wanting to clarify he heard correctly as he wants to see how it feels in his mouth.

"Hmm?"

It's such a small sound of acknowledgment. Not even a word. But Kurt is close enough that he could count Blaine's individual eyelashes if he was sober enough to focus on anything except for the way his chest is pounding and the woodsy cologne clinging to Blaine's, then the slightly sweaty smell underneath. It should be gross but isn't. Instead, it just makes Kurt want to get closer, to confirm that he isn't making it up in his head and that's desire reflecting back in Blaine's eyes. 

"I'm going to kiss you now."

And, okay, Kurt's not an expert on kissing but he thinks it's a pretty good job for his first time initiating. Sure, their teeth clack together at first and Blaine makes a little surprised sound. One kiss was all Kurt thought he'd be lucky enough to get. They part for a millisecond, breath hot on each other's faces. Then, Kurt realizes Blaine has buried a hand in the back of his hair in order to pull him back close. Kurt is only too happy to oblige, opening his mouth so their tongues can slide together and is about to push down on Blaine's jacket when he hears Tina calling his name. 

His pulse is jackrabbit fast as he pulls back, too high off the kiss to even hate Tina for interrupting them. Kurt can't help the smile on his face, trying to sound composed. 

"That's our cue to go."

Blaine squeezes his hip because apparently he came from Westerville with the sole purpose to make Kurt Hummel's heart stop. Kurt can't help but giggle a little at the thought, then realizes giggling goes against the whole calm and composed act he was trying. He pulls away from Blaine, mouth and hands suddenly feeling unwieldy and awkward now that they aren't attached to the other boy. If he believed in the afterlife, Kurt might worry that his mom was rolling in her grave as he slips a cigarette out of his pocket. If nothing else, it gives his mouth something to do other than miss the press of Blaine's own. 

"Mind if I bum one?" Blaine asks, snaking his arm around Kurt's shoulders. 

From a distance, it could be mistaken as a friendly gesture. Just a bro helping a bro who drank too much keep his balance. Still, the way Blaine kissed him or the way Blaine's fingers ghost across the nape of Kurt's neck feels more than friendly. A pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, sliding it into Blaine's easily. Tina has spotted them now, cheering as she rushes over to them. 

And, later, if he needs to, Kurt can always blame the booze for the way he leaned in to whisper in Blaine's ear, "After a kiss like that, you can have the whole fucking pack.”

As if she knows she interrupted something good, Tina brought Kurt another drink from the backyard as an offering.

He's balancing the cup in the crook as his elbow as he puts his number in Blaine's phone. Kurt could probably just put the drink on the roof of the car, but that would require him freeing his other hand from where he's crooked a finger through the loop on Blaine's jeans. They're under a streetlight, which makes the contact a little dangerous given Kurt doesn't quite trust Tina's assurance that everyone at the party was cool. There's the kind of cool that won't say anything about a boy with pink in his hair and a nose stud and then the kind of cool that tolerates two boys kissing. Kurt isn't sure that he would ever feel comfortable kissing anyone the way Mike and Tina are kissing now, a peck goodnight that has morphed into making out pressed against a car where anyone can see. 

He can still hardly believe that he just kissed Blaine back on the porch. Was it seconds or minutes or a lifetime ago? Kurt wishes they could kiss again or that they were still kissing and never stopped. They return phones and Kurt takes his cup back into his hand, still unwillingly to let Blaine's hip go. A part of him is afraid for what comes next when the clock strikes midnight and Kurt goes back to being a Skank and this boy with eyes that shine hazel in the moonlight turns back into a pumpkin or whatever. He tries to finish his drink so none of that tumbles out of his mouth but finds the cup woefully empty. 

Kurt knows he's good and drunk, because his entire body feels slow and warm. He feels himself pouting a little still, desperate to not show Blaine how he's fucked up, because it feels good to have someone so close even in the summer heat. Kurt angles the cup towards Blaine, still mindful that he doesn't slosh the sticky remnants on either one of them. 

"Pull the cherry out for me? My hands are full."

A year ago, he'd probably be embarrassed by the way his breath was low and languid as he said it. Hell, even a few hours ago, Kurt would've felt embarrassed at the way he squeezes Blaine's hip. It's hard and deliberate and definitely worth it for the way it makes Blaine close the space between them, pressing their pelvises together for an instant. _Not safe_ , Kurt reminds himself, pulling his own hips back but still leaning in to eat the cherry out of Blaine's fingers. 

It's dumb and brash, two things Kurt typically prides himself on _not_ being. Still, it's worth it for the way he hears Blaine's breath hitch just a little, the way his hand hovers in the air for a few seconds as if the fruit isn't already gone. Kurt suddenly has what seems like the best idea ever, ignoring the sounds of Mike and Tina making out as he labors to tie the cherry stem into a knot. He opens his mouth and presents it to Blaine, feeling a rush of endorphins at the way the other boy's eyes widen and the way that Blaine's face flushes as he takes the drink from Kurt's hand and downs part of it.

There's an exciting instant where Kurt tries to think of a place where they could sneak off and kiss again, but his Fireball-infused brain works slowly and suddenly there's an alarm going off. Mike's parents are strict on curfew even during the summer. He's got about thirty minutes to get himself and Blaine back to the Chang household. It shouldn't be a problem, because Mike doesn't drink when he has to drive, but Kurt notices how Mike is uncomfortably pulling at his joggers as he circles to their side of the car. Vaguely, Kurt becomes aware of where they are - releases Blaine's hip and takes a step back so it no longer looks like he's pinning Blaine to the car.

"Call me sometime," Kurt says, hoping he doesn't sound as drunk and lightheaded as he feels. "We should hang out when I'm not plastered."

Tina starts pulling him back towards the direction of the party, where they'll dance a little more and sober up before heading to her house. Kurt doesn't let his eyes off Blaine until he absolutely has to, marveling at the way the other boy seems rooted to the spot Kurt left him.

**Author's Note:**

> Underage drinking is described in the context of a party, about the level of what we would see within canon. Kurt has some thoughts that suggest he's worried about potential homophobia from others, but there are not explicit acts of homophobia.


End file.
